The Human Condition
by alienesque
Summary: Metatron's changing the rules. As the boys cope in the aftermath of heaven's fall, an all-out apocalyptic war between angels and demons looms in the distance. Sam wants to fight, but Dean just wants it to end...even if it ends bloody. Then Cas reappears one night, unconscious and fallen, forcing Dean to question everything he ever thought he knew about himself. Destiel, Sabriel
1. Domesticated

After all is said and done, what scares Dean where nothing else does, not demons or monsters or creatures that go bump in the night, is how little he cares about the fall of heaven.

Dare he even admit to deriving satisfaction from the fact, knowing that those self-righteous sons of bitches now have to roam the earth as listless, as hopeless, and as forsaken as the rest of them, even if it means unleashing thousands upon thousands of deranged, emotionless supermen on mere mortals…to do what they please, like Balthazar, to screw with human beings just because they can, like Gabriel, or to do much, much worse…

Dean just doesn't give a damn.

That scares him, no doubt, but not as much as the fear of having almost lost his baby brother, his little Sammy, now a grown man who's capable of making his own decisions, who, after all the nothing rewarded to him for throwing Lucifer back in the cage, would readily sacrifice his life again. That frightens Dean more than any floodgate of fallen angels ever could. Just as devastating is knowing that he can't dwell on the threat, the danger, the disaster and the certain deaths to come, not when the fear and anger over the disappearance of one helpless angel is all the worry a human like him can friggin' take.

Kevin decides to stay, for now at least, and maybe it's realizing he has nowhere to go or that being a prophet of the Lord in a world suddenly filled with directionless angels might be more problematic than it's worth finding out leaves him with no other choice. Either way, Dean can't say he's not relieved the kid's sticking around. With Sam still on the mend, company's hard to come by; the bunker's like a ghost town warded to keep out ghosts, so Dean can't even hope for company of the supernatural kind.

The library becomes a second home to Kevin and, even though he's got his own sleeping quarters now, Dean finds him slumped over a long table, passed out and drooling into some book, almost every night. He can't help but offer up a heartfelt smirk at the unconscious bookworm, knowing the kid doesn't think he's got the brawns or the psychological willpower to do what they do on a day-to-day, but he can dive into the archives, soak up the knowledge at their disposal like a sponge, and be useful to their survival from behind the scenes. Kevin is what Dean once imagined Sam would have been, just a wimpy little poindexter too studious for his own social wellbeing, if they hadn't been raised to do what they do.

Then Dean remembers what Kevin has managed to force from the forefront of his brainy head, the fact that all of this, the reality of their world, has destroyed him, his life, and he will never be the same. Dean knows it's not his or Sam's fault, not really, and that maybe they saved Kevin from certain death at the hands of Crowley or some other big bad. Or…maybe they did make the situation worse, exacerbated the danger by plucking the kid out of obscurity, to serve their purpose…and that Dean would never know what they could have done differently, to make things better, leaves a gaping hole of guilt in the pit of his stomach too dark and too deep to see beyond. The guilt grounds him, though, and Kevin keeps him busy, when the silence and the solitude becomes too much. Hell—at least Dean's got a better understanding now of why Batman always keeps Alfred in the loop, why the Bat Family seems to get bigger and bigger with every new issue…it's for peace of mind, knowing there'll always be someone to confide in, for solidarity.

It's to keep the friggin' crazy at bay.

Sam wants to be there for him so damn much that it hurts to watch him try. Dean knows this, knows the man wants to go out there and fix what's broken, what can't possibly be fixed by any human being, that's for damn sure. Sammy's determined to make up for not dying, for not closing the gates of hell, and doesn't want to wait out the healing process. Like Dean's going to let him charge out, guns' blazing, still in poor physical and mental health due to the trials, like a man without a plan. It frustrates him, the irony, knowing that Sammy learned this impulse to do something because it's better than doing nothing from him.

_Yeah well_, Dean mentally grumbles, as he sits at Sammy's bedside, monitoring the quality of the other's sleep, with his elbows propped up on his thighs and his chin rested against the tight clasp of his hands.

_Not this time._

Dean hunkers down for the night, after Sammy's had his ins-and-outs of lucidity, with enough strength to shower, visit the little boy's room, and read for a bit before passing out again…after he's digged in to what Dean wouldn't boast was the best damn lasagna ever made by man, but he'd dare anyone to eat his culinary masterpiece and disagree. Kevin offers to go shopping, as he always does, and, every time, Dean hesitates to let him go. The kid's gotta convince him, has to remind him that someone with fighting skill and faster reflexes should remain at the Batcave, in case something goes down. Dean should be the one to stay, in case Sam starts screaming bloody murder in his sleep again, in case he needs anything in his weakened state. Kevin offers to go because he thinks he'll be the safest one out there, even as a prophet, because no angel would dare touch him.

The same can't be said for a Winchester.

Dean hates to let him go, even as his stomach growls in neglect. That guilt he feels makes his need to watch out for Kevin that much stronger. That impulsive stupidity of his wants to rev itself up and drive right out the door, stabbing and exorcising and burning his way through hundreds of demons and monsters and creatures, if it meant saving Kevin. Because that's just what he needs, isn't it, someone else to care for, to put his life on the line for.

Another person to call his own.

There's another reason why Kevin volunteers to pick up supplies, other than the fact that inheriting and selling off his family's assets and the trust fund left to him by his late father makes him an ideal choice to not having to keep hitting different stores to avoid getting arrested for the odd shoplift, but he only mentions it once and, when he does, Dean doesn't necessarily acknowledge what he says.

In fact, he instead thinks what a shame it is that the kid ain't yet twenty-one.

They've held out long enough, a couple weeks or so, but any more would be tempting Fate, and lord knows Dean doesn't wanna have to deal with that bitch again. That morning's spent putting up wards…for anything and everything, everything the Men of Letters didn't think of, and boy did they think of a helluva lot. Still, Kevin goes through bookkeeping, of all the measures taken to ensure the safety of the bunker, and, with the kid's help, Dean fills in the blanks. Some small, less frequent brands of creatures he takes care of, like basilisks, dragons, and echidnas…anything that can slither and crawl and breed in the pipelines. Shades, they didn't think of, and Dean reinforces the demon traps already systematically placed about the property.

The place is so big that Dean can't put up the angel wards by himself, even if he wants to, and he really would rather have done it alone. They go to work and, every time they cross paths, Kevin gives him this look like he expects him to breakdown with melodramatic flare and start chucking spray cans at the walls.

Dean's fine…he's just fine.

This is necessary, he tells himself. Whatever they've been holding out for, whoever he's waiting to see pop up in the atrium like it's no big deal, has been rendered impossible now.

The Batcave's warded.

From everything.

Even _him_.

Dean thinks of how no angel can touch them now, from within these walls, as he downs one of the last beers in the friggin' place, spread out on one side of a black leather lounging sofa like he owns the place. That's when, to his surprise and unspoken delight, Kevin appears from a long winding corridor that, of one of several destinations, leads to and from the library. He greets him with a jut of his jaw and lifts the bottle in his hand, teasing the kid with the chance to taste a beverage he can't legally imbibe but, damn it, Dean would give it to 'im it if he asked. Dean's pretty sure Sammy knew what his favorite brand was before he even knew about the birds and the bees.

With the crap they have to put up with, a few drinks would do Kevin some good.

"Eighteen, remember?" Kevin says and shoots the pointer finger he still has at himself, plopping down on the other end of the sofa.

"I guess I can forgive you being a late bloomer," Dean shrugs, stirring the bottle beneath his lips, "but you are getting a fake I.D. Now that's just mandatory with us, beer or no beer."

"Great," Kevin gripes, throwing his head against the back rest. "Breaking the law? Why stop now? Getting a fake I.D. will only help solidify my budding criminal lifestyle."

"Come on, man," Dean sighs, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. "You're not some wanted criminal. Well, you are wanted, but not for being a criminal. You're just some kid, in the wrong place at the wrong time"—

"Drawn from God's big prophet raffle. Yeah, I get it." Kevin throws an arm over the back of the sofa, much in the same way Dean has, shaking his head and silently burring, but, overall, accepting of the hand fate has dealt him. Dean gives the kid kudos for taking this all in a lot better than any normal, average human being should be expected to cope. Then again, with a mom like Linda Tran, how much normalcy is he actually expecting to witness?

Dean goes to say as much when an alarm goes off and light beacons start flashing, taking Kevin's instantly unnerved attention and putting Dean on high alert. The good news is, or, the more relatively relieving news is that it's not the alarm that goes off when something supernatural happens within a fifty mile radius, and, when Dean shoots up from the sofa to give the tracker panel a good look-over, he finds the table unlit and as inactive as ever. Dean turns back to Kevin and shakes his head, giving him the all-clear, and the humongous sigh of relief that escapes the kid's lungs is a shared sentiment.

Whatever tipped off the property's alarm system must have wandered onto the premises, as has been the case before. At times it's been some stray or wild animal, traipsing around the surrounding woods, looking for some grub. Other times it's been weary travelers just looking for directions, having taken a wrong turn somewhere, but, always, it's enough for Dean to put his game face on. The idea that some otherworldly thing could have tracked them down is unthinkable but not impossible, which is why waiting even one day more to conceal the place entirely could have been the difference between life and death.

Dean tells Kevin to stay there, but the kid's stubborn and shadows him, covering his six, anyway, like a true Winchester would. Hell, the kid kinda dresses like them now, donning flannels and field jackets like most hunters…or lumberjack war-vets. Dean shakes the thought from his mind, tightening his grip on the sawed-off, rock salt shot-gun in his hand.

Supernatural creature or no, a hunter can never be too careful.

Kevin wields a glorious machete, and Dean catches its shadow in a passing light as they make their way through the entrance tunnel. They knew where to look, having referred with the security monitors on the computers Kevin installed, guided by the technological and electronic expertise of a barely functioning Sam. It was all technobabble to Dean, but he stayed nearby to make sure Sam didn't pass out and suffocate amid a throng of electrical wires and heavy equipment.

"Never thought I'd need a reason to keep one of these in my back pocket," Kevin nervously quips, either out of adrenaline or sudden realization, but Dean doesn't dwell too much on the why. Kevin's handling is all cool stillness and expert stealth, and that's all that matters. "Should it frighten me that I've gotten used to this?"

"At least you're aware enough to even ask that question, kid. I've known hunters lost so far down the rabbit hole, for so long, they no longer understand why walking around doused in mystery blood is probable cause for the cops to give 'em a hassle."

"Lucky me. My future."

Dean chuckles noiselessly and says no more, and the two fall into a necessary silence as they approach the front entryway. He wonders what it could be but prepares for the worst regardless. Without prompting, he senses Kevin do the same, and, when he holds the door open for Dean to step out first, he keeps his cool and his weapon ready, keeping to having Dean's back as the older man makes the customary distance from the base of the underground entrance to the top of the stairway down.

It's not long before what triggered the alarm is spotted by the likes of a hunter, even in the dead of night. Dean's seen enough sprawled bodies, covered in dirt and grime and possibly dead, to know one when he sees one. He doesn't call out, doesn't know who or what might be watching or listening, so he runs, soundlessly, out into the night, pleased with himself for having picked up a set of keys when he hears the door slam shut and Kevin racing after him.

"Hold his head, hold his head," he says, barely above a whisper, and Kevin, eyes wide and frazzled, does as he's told. Dean leans in close, something in him drawing him near, in desperate need to cling closer, and he doesn't fight it. Nor does he bother with blinking the moistness from his eyes, the heat rushing to the surface of his skin, as he places his cheek against chapped lips. "He's breathing."

"Brea-breathing?" Kevin stutters, in breathless incredulity, eyes darting back-and-forth at an alarming rate. "What do you mean he's breathing?"

Dean lifts up and places two fingers against a cold, clammy neck.

"He's got a pulse."

"That doesn't make any sense!"

"No," Dean manages roughly, unable do anything but stare down in fear and anger. "It doesn't."

It doesn't make sense, unless the body Dean has unknowingly gathered into his arms travelled by foot and passed out before he could make his presence known.

Because he was as exhausted as he looked.

And he felt weightless, appeared to them sunken and malnourished, because he hadn't eaten anything during his travels.

But Castiel lives, because he has a pulse and he's breathing.

Because he's human.

* * *

Set after events in season eight. I'm trying for canon continuity, as far as story and characterization goes. Multi-chapter, definitely. This is my first attempt at writing a Supernatural fic, so critique is very much appreciated!

Also, this is a slow-build Destiel fic. Maybe not as slow as others, but don't expect any sexy time soon. Just angst and heartache and blood spilt and disappointment...and then porn. ^_^

Reviews are much appreciated!


	2. Taking Care of Now

The slow slap of footsteps echoes throughout the gathering room, signaling Sam's ambling approach before Dean even sees him. His first instinct is to offer assistance, any assistance, rising from his seat out of some expectation to be needed. Turns out Sam can carry his own a lot better these days, proving so when he strolls in, yawning noisily and, if possible, scratching at his bedhead hair even louder.

"Morning, Sunshine," Dean cautions, sitting back down to resume his breakfast. It's one for the books: bacon and eggs, with a side of home-made hash, grits, two English muffins, and, to top it all off, a nice tall glass of orange juice—no pulp. With time to indulge and the luxury of having an actual kitchen, not just some coffee maker placed on the bathroom sink counter of every motel they've ever had the displeasure of checking into, Dean's made it a regular thing, to cook three meals a day.

Morning, noon, and night.

Really, there's nothing better, and, maybe, just maybe, in another life, he would have been a culinary superstar, like that British dude who keeps yelling at people.

Also? TV. TV's nice, more of a pastime now than a device they often used to find a new case. Here, in the bunker, he can kick back comfortably, pull out the portable screen, and lose himself in a world of fiction, of fantasy…where the things that are real aren't and he doesn't feel obligated to lift a damn finger, to care at all.

Sam makes a beeline towards the kitchen, after a mumbled greeting, where Kevin's still fixing himself a plate. They both return at the same time, sit at the table they too have grown accustom to eating their meals at, only Kevin's attacking a plate obscured by a wall of bacon and a mountain of hashbrown and Sammy's sitting pretty, sipping at a glass of water.

"What, you're not eating?" Dean asks, stabbing his fork into the bulbous surface of a fried egg, letting the yolk drip onto his tongue before tossing the whole of it into his mouth.

Sam watches him, with that familiar look of tired annoyance, the kind that's been perfected over years of having to deal with Dean's idiosyncrasies. "I'm not hungry," he says, his tone soft and flat.

Deans waves his fork in the air, pointing it at Sam. "You really should eat something."

"I will, Dean," Sam snaps, resting back against his chair, "when I'm hungry. Morning, Kevin."

Kevin's response is one of surprise, him being so consumed by what is, clearly, another culinary masterpiece, courtesy of one Dean Winchester, that his and his brother's bickering is nothing more than background fodder. "Morning," he emits, impish in delivery, before the sizzle of bacon becomes too hard to resist for very much longer.

"So how did it go?" Sam doesn't hesitate to delve right into their daily grind, like always, eager to keep up with the development of their activities.

"No complaints here," Dean grumbles, looking up from beneath his brow. "Kev, you?"

"Yeah," Kevin chews on, looking between the two brothers. "I'm good with just stuffing my face in silence, if you guys don't mind."

Dean shrugs, "Fair enough."

"So we're good then?"

"We're good, Sam."

"The wards, the traps?" Sam's face is troubled with skepticism. "Everything's sealed."

Dean tears into a piece of bacon, chewing more aggressively than is warranted for sure. "Everything sealed tight, like a virgin."

"Ugh, dude." Sam makes a face, a common combination of disgust and judgment that has only ever served to encourage Dean's vulgarity.

"What? It's not like you're eating anything."

"No, but I am," Kevin laments from across the table, making a face of his own, and it's the only time his fork hits a full plate that morning.

"Listen up, Phantom of the Opera…" Dean turns his attention back to Sam, the red-eyed giganto nursing a glass of water in between looks of exasperation and doubt, "everything's warded—we're off the friggin' supernatural radar here." The statement's met with silence, and Dean's only hope is that the tense atmosphere between them eases up long enough for Sam to get it through his thick, lusciously haired head that his older brother's got everything under control.

Instead, Sam hits him with another question. Like Dean doesn't have enough to wonder about these days… "Are you okay with that?"

"What do you mean am I okay with that?" Dean balks. "Of course I'm okay—why wouldn't I be okay…?" Dean stares off, a sudden inability to meet Sam's gaze, or Kevin's, forcing him to glare at their elaborately stylized, art deco surroundings. "Everything's just peachy."

"The place is now warded from angels, Dean, _all_ angels."

"Yeah, so?"

"So…are you sure we did the right thing here?"

"We?" Dean scoffs and sits back, looking to Kevin for backup, but the kid is either lost in his own world of foody delight or isn't taking sides. Still, shaking his head, he smirks like he's won majority on an argument. "_We_ didn't do anything."

"Dean"—

"Sam." The nickname falls from his lips like dead weight, plopping into the atmosphere ugly and unyielding. Dean watches his little brother stew from across the table, unmoved, his glare a cold, hard finality. "It's done."

The food being stuffed into his mouth is more tasteless than before.

"That's it then, no other option?"

"That's it." Dean flicks his fork, his shrugging shoulders stiff and forceful. Sam's stare is bold and unrelenting, watching him for signs of vulnerability or any giveaway that he doubts his decision for one second, but Dean had nothing to feel vulnerable about and no doubt in his mind that he did what needed to be done.

"Unbelievable…" Now it's Sam shaking his head, a derisive smile twitching at his lips, but Dean's well learned in the art of ignoring him. "I don't know what's worse, that you know and don't care or that you're pretending not to. He may not be answering our calls, but, Dean…putting up those wards means there's no way Cas can reach us here, where it's safe." Dean bites down on nothing, growing still, and his teeth grind as is jaw clenches shut. His eyes dart upward, with what, Dean isn't sure, but he can feel a chill run through his body, can sense the coldness in the stare he flashes Sam's way.

"Yeah, well," Dean grumbles out, harsh and uncaring, "that's not much of a problem anymore."

"What, why?" Sam jolts, confused, and he isn't intimidated by Dean, never was. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he's here."

"What?"

"Cas showed up last night. Right Kev?"

Kevin might have kept his neutrality, if not for Sam looking to him, expecting some form of confirmation. Kevin nods slowly, looking between the two brothers, chewing nervously on two strips of bacon.

Sam stares out in shock, swallowing hard. "Were you guys ever going to tell me?"

"I'm telling you now," Dean barks out. "What more do you want from me?"

"I don't know, Dean—maybe Cas showing up is kind of important. I mean way to bury the lead."

"Well, you were so busy talking about Cas without actually talking about Cas that I never got the chance," Dean grounds out gruffly, lips curling into a sardonic grin, and he grants Sam that knowing stare he'd all but beat him over the head with, "but he's here now so you can quit dancing around."

"Wait, how?" Sam stares down both Dean and Kevin with an accusing stare. "Did you guys do something wrong?"

"No, we didn't." Dean sits back and shoves his plate of food away in one fluid movement, like the damn thing's very proximity threatens what he doesn't want to say next. This time, when he looks to Kevin, hoping for unanimity, the kid's staring back at him, their shared knowledge a foundation supporting a crippling truth. Sam's waiting, Dean knows, his little brother's confusion and his frustration nothing in comparison to the worry brought on by his own hesitance. At last he manages, his eyes darting about the surface of the table, "Cas is human, Sam."

It takes a second, one frozen moment in time, for the information to process. Like the hope and the fear and the anguish and failure of the last year hasn't taken enough of a toll. Dean knows his brother, knows how the kid thinks, because he's only been taking care of him his whole life. Sammy now adds regret to his personal laundry list, like this, somehow, is something he could have prevented.

What a coincidence.

Dean's been thinking the same thing.

"Is he hurt?" And, of course, it's Cas's wellbeing Sam wonders about first, not how or why, because he wouldn't be him if he didn't. "Is he alright?"

"Helluva lot better today than he was yesterday, that's for damn sure," Dean shrugs, trying not to think about the particulars. "Turns out Naomi was right about Metatron. From what I could get out of Cas, he set him up to activate some massive angel exile—hints the celestial light show."

"Did he say why?"

"'Cause he's a little bitch." Dean's ire flares up fast, almost irrationally, at the mere idea that that angelic bastard's actions could be explained by any account. "Who cares why? Cas's Grace is gone."

"He's right," Kevin says, pushing his plate away, and at least his is empty…practically licked clean; a small victory, under any other circumstance. "Well, I mean, sentiment aside, but that's true, too, I guess," he adds, unsure of Dean's sudden outburst of anger. "I finished translating the angel tablet, a couple days ago, and what I found on the trials Metatron had Cas complete…" Kevin eyed them both, his misery mirroring their own. "They aren't trials at all. They're part of some spell that exists not to seal heaven up but to cast all angels out. First, to kill a Nephilim"—

"Angel baby," Dean blurts out, a hollow grin tugging at his lips, because the word strikes him as familiar, like something he's thought of more times in his sleep than when awake. Still, Kevin's stare has him wondering if he remembers it wrongly, and he's been wrong before.

"Yeah," Kevin confirms, continuing, "second, the bow of a Cupid, and third…" Kevin hesitates at first, but it's to cushion Sam's sensibilities. Dean's already heard this spiel, pretends it doesn't feel like a stab to the gut that he didn't think to doubt Metatron's motives in the first place, to stop this before it even began.

That he didn't do something different to make Cas stay.

"Third is"—

"Cas's Grace," Sam finishes, broken by the realization.

"…The essence of a Guardian," Kevin finishes, watching Sam. "Metatron needed Cas's Grace to finish the spell, casting all angels out of heaven. They're still powerful, which is why angel-proofing this place is the only safeguard we have to protect ourselves. Until I find something else, at least. I've been looking through the ML archives, reading up on anything that might help, but"—

"The kid's come up scanty," Dean laments, snatching his OJ from off the table.

"Where was he this whole time?" is Sam's next question, while he's still struggling to take it all in, because that feeling of hopelessness, the fear that they might have never seen the angel again, is hard to shake.

"Travelling," Dean answers, adding, "Metatron dropped him in Kansas City, Missouri." He goes to take a drink only to pause, because the sudden memory of something that actually made him truly smile in what felt like forever seems worth mentioning. "Get this…" he leans in, holding his OJ to the side. "Cas wound up stumbling upon some honky-tonk on the outskirts of Missouri, a real trucker magnet. One of them spotted him, sensed he was a bit out of it, and asked where he was headed. Cas said he asked the driver if he was anywhere near here…and the trucker told him, "You're not in Kansas anymore."

Silence and stares.

"Eh?" Dean grunts, brow rising, and waits for some kind of appreciative response, but Sam and Kevin just stare at him blankly. "No? Nothin'?" He throws his back against his seat, discouraged by their unwillingness to respond. "I get why Cas can't appreciate a gem like that, but it ain't like you two grew up under a rock."

"You're serious," Sam huffs, and it's a statement, not a question. "Cas's Grace is gone, the angels have fallen, and you're cracking jokes?"

Dean draws back from his glass, on the defense. "Oh, come on! That one practically wrote itself."

Sam rises from the table, exasperatedly, downs the last of his water as he does, and Dean's on him.

"Where are you going?" he asks, which roughly translates to 'What are you about to do and how detrimental is it to your health?' these days.

"I want to see him, Cas. I want to ask him what we should do next."

Dean frowns.

"I mean, if there's any way to fix this, Cas would know, right? We find a way to get his Grace back and then we might actually have a chance to stop Metatron before he does anymore damage. Maybe we can find something in the angel tablet or in the demon tablet, because it's not just him. It's Crowley, and Abaddon, and now there're thousands of spiteful, smiteful_supermen_ roaming the earth."

_'__Hey!'_ That's exactly what he called them, Dean thinks proudly.

"At least, with Cas back, we're not reaching out blindly."

"No, we're not reaching out," Dean corrects him, standing himself. "In fact, _we_ are not doing anything. More accurately, _you_are not doing anything at all. Not now," maybe not ever again, Dean thinks fervently. He tosses a hand out, palm down, and stirs it around, in reference to all three of them. "As of right now, we're staying out of this. Besides, Cas is in no condition to stand up, let alone go hunting down Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkel Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs."

"Who?" Dean pivots on Kevin, disappointed to an almost fanboyish fault. Still, he takes pity on the stark bewilderment screwing up the kid's face.

"Jesus," he mutters, eyes bugging out in disbelief, "I'm nerdier than even you."

"Even me?"

"Where is he?"

Dean considers the question, mulls it over in his head all of five seconds, looking towards Kevin when he answers, "We've got him lodged up in one of the rooms. It's his now, I guess."

"Great," Sam nods, "because I want to talk to him."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"He's resting, alright?" Dean snaps, having already assembled the reason at the tip of his tongue, hoping it's effective. Sam backs down, but just barely, and Dean knows he'll need a little more incentive to back off for the time being. "Cas just spent the last month travelling, mainly on foot, as a human. Okay? Not zipping through time and space, but getting from point 'A' to point 'Z' on two friggin' legs. It's obvious that he hasn't slept a wink or eaten one god damn morsel of food, because, to him, he's still an angel. Just like you, he's an absolute mess who's gonna need a while to recuperate."

Sam sighs, the comparison a reminder of how weak and fragile Dean thinks he is. "Cas isn't sick like me, Dean."

"No, he's worse." With that Dean scoops up his plate, his food now room temperature, a bristling cold that the bunker's stone walls and marble floors only seem to encourage. He picks up his half-empty glass of OJ, too, his movements aggressive and stiff. Two can grandstand, he thinks, marching around the table, making his way towards the kitchen. He does away with his own food before filling up two more plates with an identical amount of bacon, eggs, hash, grits, topped with two English muffins.

In his enthusiasm, he might have cooked an unnecessarily excessive amount of food, even for the likes of four relatively young men with fast-acting metabolisms.

Dean's in and out in a span of minutes, holding two plates in each hand, to find Sam still standing and Kevin still sitting, sheepishly, at the table.

"What, you're not eating anymore?"

"Oh no, no…I'm not hungry, Sam," Dean says, approaching his little brother. "Now sit down, shut up, and eat." Sam does as he's told, even if he's staring Dean down, getting shorter and shorter as he does, until he's sitting in his seat. Dean sets the plate in front of him but stands beside him for a few seconds more, not wanting to leave Sam's side until he sees the idiot pick up his fork and shove food down his gullet. Sam takes a few slow jabs at his eggs, lets the prongs of the fork drown in oozing yolk, before he brings the mess eagerly to his lips. "_Thank you_."

Dean turns on his heels and heads out, down a narrow corridor.

"Where are you going?" Sam asks after him.

"Bringing Cas his breakfast," Dean says, without pause, staring straight ahead when he answers.

"…I thought you said he needed to rest."

"He does," his grip tightens on the plate in his hand, "and, when he's done resting, he'll need to eat."

Dean doesn't question why he knocks until after he's opened the door and let himself in, closing the door behind him. He would have come in, anyway, even if doing so was against the ange—former angel's wishes.

It's a spacious, single bed set-up, like the other rooms, complete with a combination of brick and slate gray walls, shelves with nothing on them, a small couch, a nearby desk, and a dresser. Dean wants to pimp the place out so bad it's shameful, especially since Cas doesn't just have very little. Cas doesn't have anything at all. All he had were the clothes Dean had to strip off his back and that trench coat…it's the only article of clothing Dean refuses to toss out. It's currently in the basement, having been washed and now sitting in a dryer, where Dean left it.

That his clothes are his only possessions isn't entirely true, either, since the angel sword Dean and Kevin found sheathed in his inside pocket has to count for something. It sits on the nightstand, where Dean left it the night before, knowing that, as Cas's only line of defense, the angel sword might be the first thing he'd want to see when waking.

Dean settles down into the desk chair he left pulled up beside the bed, the memory of having done so the night before somewhat of a blur. What he remembers is Cas, carrying him into the bunker, with Kevin in tow, rushing him to this room, where Dean can't think of much else to do but hold him tight and keep him from falling.

_"__Kev, get the water running."_

_"__What?"_

_"__A bath, now!"_

This room happens to be one of a few with its own personal wash room, an adjacent bathroom, and Dean must have left the bathroom door open, because he can see the tile floor and tile walls that glow in the daylight pouring in from a small window that just barely breaks ground level.

Last night plays out in flashes, and Dean stares down at the plate in his hands, the luring smell of a hearty meal becoming more of a stench that pervades his senses.

_"__Dean…" Dean's looking down now, his neck having audibly snapped at the sound of his name as it emits through the soft-spoken gravel of Cas's voice. Even Kevin freezes at the sound and is incapable of pulling himself away from the shock until Dean drags him out from it._

_"__Hey!"_

_"__R-right."_

_"__Dean"—_

_"__Hey, hey, hey…" Dean doesn't necessarily think Cas needs to talk, his hoarse gasping doing enough to tighten his chest. "Don't speak—just breathe and stay awake. Do that for me, okay?"_

_"__Dean, I'm sorry." The look they share is long and searching, with Dean staring more helplessly than Cas, whose striking blue eyes drown in sorrow. "I-I'm sorry, Dean."_

_"__I know, I know, just—we're good, alright?" Dean tries to smile then, feels the attempt tremble at his lips, but it's a lost cause. It isn't so much a smile as it is a sigh of relief, but Dean still fears the worst, doesn't know how broken Cas is or, in this human state, what injuries he's sustained. All he knows is what he can see, and Dean sees Cas staring back at him, lips fumbling to say more. "We got you, okay? You made it back. You're home—just stay awake."_

_Cas's eyes fall then, his eyelids shuddering close, and Dean shakes him, not too harshly, but, hopefully, just enough to jostle Cas from slipping into unconsciousness._

_"__I got you."_

Dean's doing his best to keep it together.

He leans forward, setting the plate down on the nightstand, up against the angel blade. All the while, his eyes never wander far from the body huddled at the other side of the bed. Only Cas's backside, his mane of dark hair and his left shoulder clothed in one of Dean's well-worn cotton shirts, peep out from the mound of covers Dean stole from the bedding of every other unoccupied room, and, still, Dean thinks that these flimsy excuses for blankets aren't enough.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says, his voice scarce and low, but a scream in the deafening silence that surrounds them. "I brought you some grub…eat hearty and all that."

His lopsided grin is short-lived.

Dean remembers sitting here the night before, like now, watching Cas sleep, dwelling on the mere skin and bones he held onto when he helped the angel out of his clothes.

_"__Bath's ready." Kevin announces, returning just as Dean is standing Cas on his feet. "Anything else I can do?"_

_"__Nah," Dean breathes, slinging Cas's right arm around his shoulder. "Thanks, but I got it from here." Kevin stands there, momentarily stationary, and maybe it's the dead weight of a full-grown man hanging lifelessly against him or the fact that Cas looks like a reject extra from The Walking Dead, but he isn't leaving. "Really…I mean it," Dean insists, heaving a tremendous sigh when Kevin still refuses to move. "Look, go get some clothes from my room. Anything, I don't care…he's not gonna give crap. Then go check the perimeter, check the locks and the security cameras. Make sure nothing followed him into town."_

_"__Yeah, I can do that," Kevin says, nodding, possessed by uncertainty and something close to worry. "What are you going to do?"_

_"__I'm going to take care of him."_

That's what Dean's gonna do.

_Cas goes in and out, staying aware enough, just long enough, to assist Dean in moving him around, even if he's too weak to do even that. Dean removes most of Cas's clothes on his own, hateful of their tattered, bloodied, and dirt-laden state. He finds himself reminiscing on the last time he wound up seeing Cas naked, lying on top of his car, covered in bees, and a less shattered him might have laughed out, a lively, healthy, albeit completely insane, Cas being a welcomed memory that Dean can cling to, to keep himself from falling apart._

"You were pretty out of it, last night," Dean begins, eyes cast downward, "so I'm not sure how much you remember, but you made it back. The Batcave…that's what I call it. Never got to tell you that, because of all the crazy that was going down and, before that, I was ignoring you, because I was angry. I'm still angry, Cas," Dean looks up, swallowing hard, "but not with you."

_"__Dean? I come bearing gifts." Dean holds a wash cloth against the bare skin of Cas's back. "Also, your room's a lot cleaner than I thought it'd be."_

_"__Don't you dare drown, you hear me?" Dean steps out of the bathroom to find Kevin standing dutifully at the center of the bedroom, carrying some clothes in his hand. From what Dean can see, the prophet fished out articles he thought might fit Cas's leaner form, like a faded gray 'T' Dean barely wears anymore, because it makes him look like one of those American Apparel-shopping, form-fitted v-neck wearing douche bags, and a pair of navy-blue, gingham patterned boxers that he didn't wear a lot, because, well, every now and then, Dean preferred the free, easy breeze of free-balling._

_God, Dean hopes Kevin hasn't noticed that to even consider it when picking out clothes for Cas._

_"__Thanks." That's when Dean realizes that there's something missing. "What, no pants?"_

_"__Boxers are pants." Dean stops before they really get into it, not wanting to argue now over something so unimportant, but they are going to hash this out sooner or later. He tosses his clothes over Kevin's head and watches them land on the edge of the bed. "Has he said anything else?" _

_"__Not yet." Dean crosses his arms and stares back towards the bathroom. He doesn't hear anything, not the swish of water, limbs moving against a porcelain cocoon, and that frightens me. "I have to get back to Cas. If he says anything, I'll let you know in the morning."_

_"__Yeah," Kevin agrees, but his eyes are drawn to the bathroom. "Seriously, though, is he going to be okay?"_

_"__Why, you worried?"_

_"__What, about the guy who threatened to beat my ass…? Yeah. I mean, it's not every day an angel becomes a human. I'd like to believe the same thing happened to all the other angels out there, but something tells me we don't have that kind of luck."_

_"__No we don't." Kevin glares at Dean, wanting to hear a more sugar-coated reality. "Get some sleep."_

_"__Night, Dean." Kevin turns to leave, hunched forward in exhaustion._

_"__Stay away from the liquor cabinet."Dean tells his retreating form, knowing that a night like this one can easily trigger Kevin's penchant for underage drinking._

_"__Eighteen, remember?"_

_"__Yeah, you keep saying that, but I'll start believing it when you stop brandy binging when you think no one's watching. Remember, when the chips are down"—_

_"__When are they ever up?"_

_Dean thinks it over, but he's nothing. "…Good point."_

"Cas?" The room's still, lifeless, but not the body lying on the bed, no matter how hard Cas tries to pretend otherwise. "Cas, I know you're awake." Dean leans over, against the edge of the bed. "You flinched when I opened the door. You weren't expecting me, couldn't detect my approach," because you're human, Dean doesn't say, not having the heart to remind the fallen angel just yet. "Eat something, at least."

Cas makes no move to respond, determined to wait Dean out, like that's going to happen. Because whether Cas speaks to him or not, continues to ignore him, like he doesn't exist, so that he can wallow in sadness and pain and suffering and guilt all on his lonesome, Dean will still be here. Been there, done that, and he's learned from past mistakes. The last time he abandoned Cas, the angel wound up destroying his home.

"Right…" Dean sighs, running his hands up and down his face. "You know, Sam's asking to see you. He's a friggin' train wreck, too. Wants to see if there's anything we can do about getting your Grace back, but let's be honest here…we've got bupkis. I know that, you know that, but, despite how freakishly tall he is, Sam can't seem to see over his own guilt about the trials long enough to get a clue. So why bother? Let's all just lie in bed, staring at the wall, and pretend that the world isn't falling all around us. I'm down with that, and you want to know why? Because human beings are selfish, petty, self-pitying creatures, but I'm sure you already know that. Am I right, Cas?"

At some point, amid the hurt and frustration gushing from Dean's lips in a flurry of words, something finally lands, because Cas starts to move beneath the covers. He doesn't turn entirely but just enough to let Dean know he's listening, acknowledging what Dean has to say.

"You see, I'm giving you the benefit, Cas, because you're hurting, you're exhausted and starved, and I have no doubt that this is all scary to a being that's never had to breathe or feel the blood that's pumping in its veins.

"Only, I got a kid out there who's resigned himself to this life, who's lost everyone he loves, and he knows that, if the slightest chance he could have a normal life even existed, this crap would only follow him and destroy everyone and everything he cares about. My own brother was going to sacrifice his life, because he thinks that I think I can't depend on him. So, the moment he's better, he's going to walk out of here and do anything to prove that he's worth a damn, even if it means getting himself killed."

Dean's shaking, and he has to breathe deep, close his eyes, and brace himself against the edge of the bed, clutching at the fitted sheet beneath his fingers.

"Cas," Dean exhales, eyes snapping open, "I care about you. You are my concern but you are not my only concern. Now, I will do whatever it takes to get you better, to help you through this, but you gotta meet me half way. If you don't wanna fight what's coming next that's fine—neither do I…" Dean falters, and he knows he's pulling needlessly at the sheets, as if by sheer will alone, he could force Cas closer to him…"but you have to survive. I need you to survive."

It's an invisible pain, the idea that someone would give up so easily, but he's been there before. Dean knows what it feels like to feel nothing at all, to want to feel nothing at all, and damn the consequences—to hell with the people who love you, who would mourn your death. Sitting at that bar, he accepted Cas's decision to leave, because it meant something more, a bigger picture that he couldn't touch. Still, he was losing Cas.

Well, not this time.

Not if he can help it.

Dean's so preoccupied with keeping it together that he doesn't notice the fallen angel now watching him from across the bed. Cas looks cognitive enough, with that same pinpointed focus he exhibited last night, in the few instances where he was able to utter more than just an apology. Dean remembers ruffling the top of Cas's then bathwater wet hair when Cas told him about the trucker, and, for a moment in time, it felt like the good ol' days—well, it was the relatively better days, where Cas would unknowingly say something worth a laugh without a clue as to why.

That's the memory he thinks of, as he watches Cas back, and he has no idea why. Maybe it's because Cas has a habit of smiling, beaming really, when he feels included in something, even if he doesn't entirely know why. Maybe it's because that look of contentment is in such stark contrast to the sadness in his eyes, the tears now dropping from his eyes.

"Dean," he says, his voice as rough as ever, wiping his cheeks with a trembling hand. "I'm crying."

"Yeah," Dean manages, breathlessly, because Cas not being an angel anymore doesn't mean the sheer brilliance of his eyes aren't ethereally captivating. "Yeah, that happens."

"I'm not particularly fond of the human body's natural secretion to prevent infection or the human mind's susceptibility towards strong emotions."

"Yeah…I hate crying, too," Dean says, a nervous, noiseless laugh escaping from the depths of his lungs. "You hungry?"

"…Very." Cas looks down, at the layers of covers weighing down on the weakened body that's now very much is own. "Only, this body has acclimated itself to a certain level of warmth and has no interest in forfeiting such comfort by leaving this bed."

"Well, if you wanna eat, you'll have to sit up," Dean taunts, reaching out for Cas's plate of breakfast. "So how 'bout it, champ?"

"Also," Cas looks away again, and Dean stops to eye him, swearing he can see a hint of rouge tinting Cas's pale, clammy face. "I'm finding this body too weakened to move much on my own. It hurts, everywhere, but the pain isn't going away."

"Yeah," Dean grins darkly. "That happens, too." Despite his own words, Cas tries to push himself up and collapses, nearly hitting his head against the headboard. Dean thinks of the time Sam fell out of bed and figures a bit of assistance might be in order. He transfers himself from the chair to the bed, towards the middle of it, grabbing the pillow Cas hadn't used as he sidles over. When Cas pushes himself up again, Dean is there to catch his fall, not with the pillow, like he'd meant to, but with the meat of his chest.

Cas looks up just as Dean looks down, the red of his face spreading and spreading fast.

"'m sorry," he says, and Dean's is too distracted by the fact that he can feel Cas's warm breath against the nape of his neck to notice how awkwardly close they are.

"Don't worry about it," Deans nods, nods, and nods some more, remembering that there's a pillow in his hand and that he still hasn't placed it at the base of Cas's back. With the newly made human seated in an upright position, propped against the headboard, Dean reaches over and picks up his plate. "Can I trust you to feed yourself, or will I have to play nurse?"

"I think I can manage, Dean," Cas drones, and Dean hands over his food, brandishing a cheeky smirk. "Thank you."

"Thank me after you've basked in the glory that is my cooking skills," Dean demands, his smile a rare unicorn, never minding the proximity of their bodies, the warmth radiating off Cas, like that of a warm-blooded human, or the fact that, despite the pillow, Cas is still pressed against him, if only slightly, leaning on him for support. "Now eat."

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Reviews are much appreciated!


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